


tell it to the marines

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Rumors, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25623616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: “Ah. Well. They’re saying,” says Irving, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, not meeting Tozer’s eyes, “that I, ah.” He swallows, starts again. “The men are saying… that I possess a… a member, of…unusualsize…”Tozer lets that delicious understatement hang in the air for just a moment before saying, “Do you, now?”“Yes. I mean— I—” Irving stammers, “I mean that’s what they’resaying.Not— I mean, I don’t—”
Relationships: Lt John Irving/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 29
Kudos: 83





	tell it to the marines

Tozer is used to being gulled by the men, or at least he’s used to them trying. _Go tell it to the Marines,_ the saying goes, _because the sailors won’t believe you._ Oh, how he hates that bloody idiom. It’s chafing enough that his men don’t receive the Discovery Service bonus pay, but to also be the target of endless foolishness from those under his protection, pranks and lies and tall tales, from every corner? It makes him boil, turn red as his jacket, if he thinks about it too much. 

But this tale he’s hearing now, over his shoulder during dinner— this, he wants to believe. Christ, does he want to believe. 

“Is that true?” he says, swinging a leg around his sailor’s chest to face Bobby Golding at the next mess table over. 

The boy straightens up to attention as Tozer’s gaze falls to him. “Swear on my sister’s life, sir,” he says, through a mushy mouthful of salt pork. 

“Who told you?” 

Bobby points to Tommy Evans, sitting across from him. 

“Right, who told _you?”_

“I heard it from Wentzall, s-sir,” Tommy stammers. 

“And where’d he hear it from, then?” 

“From Mr. Hickey, he said, sir.” 

“And him? How’d he come to know?” 

“Dunno, sir,” Tommy says, with an abashed look. 

“If it came from Mr. Hickey, I’d credit it,” Bobby supplies. “Never known him to lie, or to believe one told to him. He’s on watch now, or I’d say ask him yourself, sir.” 

Tozer marks the time. Watch doesn’t end for another two bells, and by then Tozer will be running drills with his men up on deck. 

Meanwhile he can’t shake the idea that he’s being cozened, perhaps not by either of the boys, but by someone else down the line. Despite Bobby’s heartfelt assurance that Hickey wouldn’t lie, Tozer is deeply skeptical. 

It seems so very improbable, is all. Really, he thinks, it’s just something he’s got to see for himself. 

So after drills and supper Tozer checks the watch list, and after that the wardroom, where he finds only Little and Hodgson, deeply ensconced in their card game. 

There’s not much else to do then but step down the passageway to Lieutenant Irving’s cabin, rap three times on the door, and call: “Lieutenant Irving, sir. It’s Tozer.” 

“Come in, Sergeant,” comes the response. 

Irving is leaning forward in his chair, stripped to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, with a Bible open on his writing desk and a glass of port beside it. When Tozer pulls the door shut behind him Irving slides his chair back, looks up, nods to Tozer with bland authority. 

“Evening, sir,” Tozer says, “how are you?” 

“Perfectly well, thank you,” says Irving shortly. “What seems to be the problem?” 

“Not a problem, so to speak,” Tozer says casually, “nothing that need concern the rest of the ship—” 

“Then what is it? I’m busy, as you can see.” He gestures to his Bible. 

Tozer schools his face into solemnity. “I’ve been hearing things. A rumor, going round the men, regarding yourself. But I haven’t been able to hear more than that, sir, only that you’re the subject. They clam up when I get too close. Well, I thought I should ask— do you have any idea of what’s being said?”

Irving’s face crumbles like weak spring ice, into an expression of unadulterated mortification. “Of course, I’ve heard them talking— and it’s just the most— the most _wretched_ thing,” he says, shaking his head. “The most cruel, the most foul— I couldn’t possibly repeat it, no, no—!” 

Tozer smoothly slides into a crouch, so that he’s staring up at Irving from below the height of his desk. He lays a calming hand on Irving’s thigh and the lieutenant takes the bait, grips it in his, a clutch so strong Tozer nearly winces. 

In a soothing tone, Tozer says, “You can tell me, Lieutenant. You’re in the clear.” 

“Ah. Well. They’re saying,” says Irving, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, not meeting Tozer’s eyes, “that I, ah.” He swallows, starts again. “The men are saying… that I possess a… a member, of… _unusual_ size…” 

Tozer lets that delicious understatement hang in the air for just a moment before saying, “Do you, now?” 

“Yes. I mean— I—” Irving stammers, “I mean that’s what they’re _saying._ Not— I mean, I don’t—” 

He looks as if he’s about to break down in tears, and doesn’t that just make Tozer want to touch him even more? 

Sparing a glance up at the lieutenant’s bookshelf he can see only religious books and devotionals, none of the _Punch_ issues or Dickens novels that crowd the other officers’ cabins. 

The man’s the type to plug his ears when the sailors’ chants turn bawdy, the type to supply Sir John with suggestions for psalms at the next divine service, not out of any sycophantic aspirations but out of sheer earnest zealotry. For such a rumor to circulate, regardless of truth, must be a painful thing indeed. He clearly needs to be comforted. 

“Of course, of course,” says Tozer softly. “You know the men, how they can get. I’ll track down the culprit, you just leave it to me.” 

Irving nods, looking slightly reassured. 

“But of course, before I do,” says Tozer, tipping his head, “I need to know.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Why— if it’s true or not.” 

Irving stares. Tozer can feel he’s gone unnaturally still, can nearly hear the man’s heart begin to race underneath his shirt. 

“Spreading a libelous untruth, that’s one thing, sir,” Tozer goes on, as if he’s discussing nothing more or less casual than the weather, “but revealing bona fide personal details about their superior officer, well, isn’t that another? Not the same kind of rumor at all. And so not the same kind of man who’d spread it.” 

There’s a pause that lasts just a hair too long, and then Irving snaps: “I’ll not have you speaking to me in this manner, Mr. Tozer.” Only after that does he realize he’s still holding on tightly to Tozer’s hand, and lets go of it as quick as if it were a burning coal. His own hand flutters right on up to his heart, in a pose of peak offense. 

“If you’d rather not say, Lieutenant,” Tozer says, “you could always show me.” 

He watches Irving’s throat bob, watches the man gape fish-mouthed down at him, seemingly rid of the power of speech entirely. Which is just fine. 

Tozer, slowly and deliberately, reaches up to Irving’s desk, flips his Bible closed, and pushes it back and away. An act of charity, if ever there was one.

Then he takes up Irving’s hand again (he's gone all pliable, now, moveable as a pretty little doll, if he gets like this every time he’s touched by a man, Tozer can only imagine how he comes over when he’s being shaved by Mr. Gibson) and guides it down to the waist of his finely tailored trousers. 

With barely any more coaxing Irving starts in on his flies under his own power, trembling as he pushes aside his shirttails and removes his prick. 

Tozer has to restrain himself from swearing at the sight of it— _Bloody mother of Christ above—_ he knows very well that if he were to blaspheme now, it might all end, possibly with a slap to the face. It is a delicate situation. 

So he satisfies himself with a low, happy murmur of “Lieutenant Irving, as I live and breathe,” as he bathes in the glow of the fattest prick he’s ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. Not a single word of what he’d heard Bobby breathlessly recounting to his messmates rings false, in his humble estimation. 

Irving’s eyes, meanwhile, are once more shut tight above him, and he’s now even turning his head up and away— as if he could detach himself at the neck like a dead king and float up through the illuminator, rather than having to acknowledge the existence of his own tremendous, God-given gift. 

“I’ll have to get a better look,” Tozer says, “you understand. Just to clear matters up in full.” 

A wordless babble of perfunctory refusal is cut off by Tozer swiftly rising to his feet, pulling Irving back, chair and all, so that there’s room now between him and the desk. Tozer perches on the table’s edge and leans forward; licks his thumb and drags a stripe up the improbable length of Irving’s prick. Irving shivers, whimpers below him, the sound so sweet to Tozer’s ears. 

“My, my,” he says. “Will it get much bigger, if I do this, d’you think?” He curves his hand around Irving’s estimable width, gives it a few good tugs. “Then again— would you even know, to tell me? Or do you look away when it comes out, keep it in the dark under the covers when you frig yourself at night?”

“I’d never— I don’t, ever, I couldn’t—” 

“I’d believe it,” says Tozer. “A pity, though. An instrument like this should be played, and played often, so as not to lose its tune, isn't that what they say?” 

He adds more spit to his palm and begins to work Irving’s prick in earnest. The man seems to be biting his tongue now, depriving Tozer of those lovely sighs, but he figures it’s just a matter of time. 

And yes, as Irving stiffens, he’s indeed growing: getting redder, more massive by the second. It’s astounding to watch. Tozer thought he’d been awed by the wildlife on Beechey, the great white bear he’d shot clean through that then lumbered off, as if it hadn’t even been scratched— but it turns out the most impressive beast of the North had been hibernating hardly a dozen yards down from his own hammock this whole time, hidden behind only a thin wooden door. 

Irving’s hands are gripping the sides of his chair, knuckles going white. “Please,” he whimpers, opening his mouth at last, “please, please.” 

Tozer can’t tell what he’s begging for: release, reassurance, absolution— and in fact he suspects Irving doesn’t quite know himself. 

He makes a pretty sight, red-faced under his handsome beard, white teeth biting at his full, pink lower lip. If only he could see how Tozer was looking at him now— but even as Tozer pushes his unoccupied hand through Irving’s perfectly combed chestnut hair, the man’s light eyes remain resolutely shut. 

“I heard it was Mr. Hickey, told the men about you,” Tozer says conversationally. “Which I can believe. But how’d he find out? There’s the question. Cause you wouldn’t let a man like that see a prick like this, would you? Nah. He wouldn’t deserve it.” 

“Mr. Gibson,” says Irving, grinding up into Tozer’s fist, “It was Gibson— must have told that rat— that little rat Hickey— I’ll have his neck— I’ll have him flogged— both of them—” 

“Ah, but can you blame him? I can’t,” says Tozer. He plies open the buttons of Irving’s waistcoat with one hand so he can do the same to the shirt below, then shoves his fingers up into the hair of Irving’s chest, pinches at one nipple and then the other, all as Irving’s hips jerk, unpracticed and desperate, hungry for touch. “Why, if I met a prick like this, and had the morals of a lesser man, a weak man like your Mr. Gibson, I wouldn’t be able to restrain myself, would I? I’d go running up the maintop, shout it so loud the Esquimaux could hear it, all the way on their islands—” 

“You wouldn’t,” gasps Irving, squirming, “you can’t—” 

“You needn’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ll make sure everyone knows there’s not a grain of truth to the tale they're telling.” 

“Oh, _oh—_ please, Tozer— _”_ Irving gasps as Tozer’s wide, calloused thumb swipes across his slit, circles it and smears the fluid collected there, gathering it to slick his palm before tightening his grip again, pumping with untiring, athletic vigor. 

He can’t imagine Irving’s ever had such pleasure from Gibson’s hands, not those skinny steward’s fingers, nor the lad’s mouth for that matter, thin-lipped and simpering. Proudly, he realizes this might well be the first good frig Irving’s ever had in his life. 

“I’ll tell everyone you’re like a boy down there,” says Tozer, “that you’ve got the smallest, most useless prick on board this ship. How’s that?” 

Irving moans, wordless and needy; Tozer speeds his pace. “I’ll say that the Lord God made it so you can’t even get it up if you wanted, made you _Terror_ ’s very own saint _,_ a blessed virgin for life, that's our Lieutenant Irving, holy holy fuckin’ holy—” 

He’s so exultant of the hot, thick weight of Irving’s prick in his hand that he feels drunk, hardly knows what he’s saying at this point. It’s a surprise when _that_ of all things is what does the trick, sends Irving shuddering and spilling in great gushes befitting of his size. 

And what does Irving let loose at that moment but the very oath that’s been on the tip of Tozer’s tongue this whole time: a choked-off _“Christ!”_ that, though quiet, carries tremendous consequence. Tozer’s own prick twitches and he knows he’ll be bringing himself off to that remembered sound, not only tonight but for many a cold night to come. 

Irving lies winded and whimpering in his chair as Tozer leans back, admiring his handiwork. The lieutenant is covered in spend, spattered across that triangle of bare skin Tozer had opened, and even shining in a few thick drops up in his beard. 

Blindly, Irving fumbles in a pocket for his handkerchief; gets it out at last and mops up the mess, clumsily and shamefully. Only when his prick is tucked fully back into his trousers does Irving at last crack open his eyes. 

He gives a start to see Tozer still standing there, as if he’d tried to wish the whole thing a dream, and thought for one blissful moment that he’d succeeded. 

Tozer had waited silently, leaning against the door. Now that he’s finally in sight again, he straightens up, gives a salute and a smile, and lets himself out without another word. 

He finds the off-duty men bedding down in the fo’c’sle, and looks out at them, contemplating, as he shrugs off his jacket, removes his boots.

It’s not that he _owes_ Irving anything, no, that’s not it. Rather, he finds himself concerned that someone else might hear the story, and stumble across the same idea as him. That won't do at all— not when Tozer’s mind is already overrun with plans, regarding further use of that glorious prick. There'll be no sharing, not if he has anything to say about it. 

“Oi, Crispe,” he calls, beckoning the seaman over from a few hammocks down. This fellow’s the trusting type, and trusted, too, with plenty of friends to spread a new tale around to— to replace the old, or merely to discredit it. “You’ll never guess what I heard about Lieutenant Little…” 

  
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> "Tell it to the Marines" is [a real idiom,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tell_it_to_the_Marines) originating from the pejorative idea that Marines were unusually gullible. 
> 
> this owes a debt of gratitude/inspiration to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25390996) which sold me on the glory of tozer/irving. 
> 
> & i'm on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe) :)


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